The thought
that we may have made the wrong decision
terrifies us,
so we choose to ignore the possible exploration it might take to realize
what the right decision might actually be.
The gray, old statue sits lopsided in my mother’s garden
Twenty four inches high and leaning ever forward in the mud while
enduring the sun
and enjoying the snow or rain
Because she gets the most attention in the weather that depresses humans,
Mortals drawn to her alluring virginity and enduring divinity
Groveling for guidance and searching for silence in less than tranquil gardens on earth.
Mary cries gray tears for America and grey tears for Europe
Because we all fling questions up to her for the same reason.
But we will never realize how small we are until we hit our knees and stare eye to eye,
Instead of
staring,
crestfallen, down at muddy Mary in the garden.